Caveats: same as all those other stories: don't read if you're underage. Events portrayed only mildly represent reality and any resemblance to real people or events is--well--you'd have to be clever to pick up on it. There will be sex, but you're going to have to wait a few chapters. I, well, I still am.
Nothing Special, Chapter 1 by uscboy41 (uscboy41@hotmail.com)
Odi et amo. Quare id faciam fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.
I hate and I love it. "Why I do it?" perhaps, you ask. I do not know, but I am being made, I think--and tormented! (Catullus 85)
Nothing special. I'd read too many stories, seen too many pictures, ogled too many guys to think that I had a nice figure--I thought enough of myself to put "athletic build" on internet ads, but who doesn't? I kept active, sure enough; I ran as often as I could, swam (poorly) in high school, got to the gym when I could, but only enough to put a little muscle on. I wasn't ready to fully commit to any change in lifestyle necessary to really put on weight, and I'd missed the memo that everyone else got back in high school the one saying that working out was fun. Maybe I regret it now.
I wasn't too bad...I liked my arms at least. Or, I should say, that they were at least impressive when compared to the lack of muscles in the rest of my body. I didn't have a lot of fat, but just enough to cover my abs but leave a little of my ribs showing. My biceps, though, they bulged when I flexed, and my forearms looked mean--well, lean. Man, I sound lame. I wouldn't even want to read this story. You've gotten this far, though, so I guess I should get to the good stuff.
Anyone who's been through college knows the drill--all the guys are hot, during the summer they don't wear shirts...well, if you're in the south the summer encompasses at least eleven months of the year, and that makes for good eye candy. It's the least a closeted guy can do to keep his eyes straight ahead--let alone keep his mind focused on the books. Somehow I was able to put guys out of the picture enough (and avoid enough porn) to pass my first year of college.
And I don't know how I met Jon--he just seemed to show up in my life, coincidences. Nothing special. He was in a few of my honors classes, he played frisbee with me a few times, he was a friend of a friend. I almost wish I hadn't met him, he was too much of what I was not. He was funny with his smile, he was brave with his intellect, he was strong with his figure.
I forced my eyes to glide over him when we were playing frisbee out on the field with a bunch of other guys, especially when he was shirtless. His skin would start to glisten with sweat, stacked chest gulping air after a long run, powerful legs recoiling for a hugh leap as he stretched his ripped torso up in the air, sinewed arms reaching high to make the catch, and his hair bounces gently on his forehead, blonde locks clinging together with sweat as he lands back on the ground. It was the least I could do to avoid staring.
He hadn't started hardcore lifting until right before he got to college, apparently. He swam and wrestled in high school, lifted some his senior year, but then started with a strict regimen his freshman year. It showed, too, and his body type was perfect for it. His legs were thick, his arms were ripped, as lean as the forearms of a lion, meeting together at broad shoulders and a thick neck. His torso gleamed like a marble statue of Adonis--and his face was no less intoxicating. He had blue eyes (I'd always hoped for green), but they sparkled in the sun and seemed to reflect the pale blue of the sky. His face was wide, but his thick lips spread into a goofy, genuine smile.
And I had to be his friend! A classic curse--it would seem to be a benefit to be around him more and more often, but I would never want to ruin that friendship by professing that the scale of our relationship seemed to be tipped a little heavily to my side. I would constantly seek little hints that he might be dropping--and tried to drop hints myself, on occasion. There was always the jokes and games college guys would play to see who was the more homophobic. The heterosexual games of the locker room. And just like that locker room where the athletes only felt safe because they knew homosexuality was left at the door (well, that's another story), so could the jokes and gestures between us remain safe only if we both knew we were straight.
Or were we? I guess that was always the question I was looking for a better answer to. Maybe he wasn't as straight as I thought he was. Maybe he was thinking the same things about me. But I was always too afraid...I always had to stay on the safe side of the playful gestures and jokes because I didn't want to lose the relationship that we had. Who knows what he would think if he found out I was gay? Or worse, what would he think if he found out I'd been ogling him since I'd known him? Not that he could blame me for it--how was he to know that I wasn't just taking advantage of our friendship just to get a good look at a hot guy whenever I could? He was a stud...I was...nothing special.